Four things you never knew about French
by KShade
Summary: French is the language of love, so isn't it right that some nuances to the language fit certain characters? One is pre-canon, three are au's, Cowritten with two wonderful people credited inside.
1. A Question of Will

_**Greetings, gentleviewers! So, this was written, cowritten really, by three of us. The other two are the wonderfully talented **_**The Star that lied _and Instagram's william_the bloody. And we managed to collaborate and write these for Drusilla_theseer, HAPPY BIRTHDAY! And thanks for whats been an awesome... is it actually 18 weeks? That's what the picture says, but I can't believe it. Anyways, happy birthday, and we hope you enjoy this. Also, this is written by three late french immersion students, anyone who speaks French and sees a mistake, please do point it out._**

_**There is no goodbye that doesn't imply a return. Au revoir means until next time, à bientôt/demain means "see you soon/tomorrow". And some people are like that too… goodbye is never forever, no matter how permanent it looks…**_

_Willow makes the spell for Spike in Lover's Walk. He uses it and Drusilla comes back, but she's not acting quite right. He knows it's the spell holding her here, and he can't do this anymore. He hates that this is against his will, and he can't do this anymore. _

_Notes: Dru is very OOC at the start, because she's under a spell. _

"Love?" he heard from downstairs, "the stars are all blurry, have I done something to upset them?" she asked him, looking up at the ceiling and squinting. "I can't hear the pixies, but I-" when Spike left his room, Drusilla ran at him, "I don't need them, I have you, my big bad."Spike felt a twinge as he looked at her, her words causing him to feel a surge of guilt for using the spell, cutting her off from her powers. He kissed her softly, feeling her hands roaming enthusiastically over his body. Why was it that he didn't feel it like he did before? Why did it not feel real yet? Drusilla had never acted so desperate, and he should love the passionate way she caressed her hands over his body, feeling every inch of him with her cool hands.

Spike didn't like it. His dark goddess would never… what was the spell, and what was Drusilla's free will? He felt sickened by his own actions. It had been enough that he'd fallen for the slayer, if only for an instant, a fleeting what-if, but to remedy it, he forced Drusilla to come back. Spike kissed her sweetly, gently, her responding to his kiss enthusiastically, kissing him deeply. _What had this spell done to her? _ "Look, Drusilla, I'm sorry I did this, this—this isn't right," he confessed, "you don't—you don't really want to be here." And that was all he got out, before she silenced him with a kiss, her hands finding the buttons on his shirt, working on undoing them until he held them behind her back.

She smirked up at him, "oh, my big bad," she moaned, misinterpreting the reason he had for holding her hands behind her back. Sometimes, they would do things like that, take control, and Spike couldn't believe… a part of him wanted it, and he was disgusted that he could, after all, she wasn't in control of herself. This was maddening, she was so close, and he could smell her, with no trace of any other demon (a fact that he didn't know quite what to make of) and feel her hot, willing body, so close to his. He loved her, and if he could do this, take her will away and shag her, he would be no better than her sire. He wanted her to want him for real, to love him for real. He sighed, trying to get to his coat, which was hanging in the front of the house they'd 'borrowed' He wasn't far from it, just in the stairwell, but Drusilla blocked it from view. "I can't do this," he muttered to himself, releasing her wrists.

Drusilla smiled, thinking he was complaining about her clothed state. She started to unzip the long red dress, her eyes darkening. Spike stilled her hands as she tried, and he shook his head. "there's something amiss, pet. This isn't you. I—bloody hell, I can't do this." There was a counter spell in the pocket of his coat that Willow had told him he might want. He'd almost given it back, but she'd made him take it. She told him that it was in case there was a mistake with the spell, and he'd taken it then, because he was worried that if the spell wasn't right, it would hurt Drusilla. The spell was sodding perfect, hats off for Red, but he couldn't take her free will away.

She looked at him, hurt when he stopped her and told her he couldn't do it. "you—you don't love me anymore," she said, stepping away from him, shaking her head. Spike was torn between trying to ease her pain and bounding to go get the cure for it. Drusilla looked over at him, "you love the sunshine now," she said softly, tears glistening in her eyes. Spike sighed, overcome. What did he do, let the spell make a puppet out of her or hurt her with the best intentions? He held her close for a moment, letting her rest her head on his shoulder, arms holding her, but not forcing her close to him. He could do this, comfort her without taking advantage of her.

He stroked her hair, "Love, I'm going to get something from my coat, and everything is going to make sense again—or, sort of. The stars are going to come back, and you're going to hat me. Rightfully so. I just wanted to tell you before you leave again that I love you, and that's why I did this. I made Willow create the bloody spell so I could have you back. That's why I can't do this. You're under a spell, and not thinking clearly, and I can't use you, while your free will is… well, not free. That's the only reason I'm pushing you away, not because I don't still… don't still feel the same, or because you're not still the most beautiful woman I've ever met. And It's not because you left either. Cliché as it sounds, this one is all me." He spent a moment, just holding her as she thought, tried to work out what was going on, "then, he said the last few words, the most important ones, "I love you, Drusilla," he told her, voice barely above a whisper.

Drusilla held him close as the explanation started to get to her very conflicted, spell-addled mind. This couldn't be a lie, could it? Was this all the witch's spell playing games with her thoughts, making her want Spike again? It couldn't be, she loved him. Didn't she? She was dreadfully confused, and nothing made sense, so she tried not thinking. If she didn't think, maybe she could just enjoy this moment without the confusion ruining it for her. Spike released her though, walking to his coat, and getting a small wooden box. He ripped it open, closing his eyes and bracing for the worst. Through his closed eyelids, he could see the flash, hear the resulting "oh" from Drusilla as her will was released. He wondered if she would remember anything. She'd remembered it the time Harris had is massive love spell fiasco. Actually, she'd spent that day with him, despite that it irked his sire, just wanting to feel home, right. Spike hadn't complained… he'd loved it, being back with her.

She slapped him hard, her hand cracking across his face, unexpected because of his closed eyes. He opened them to see hurt in her eyes, undisguised. He deserved the slap, so he stood and awaited more, cheek glowing with a red handprint. "You've been naughty, Spike, playing with my head, making the stars go away, the world go away until all I could do was…" she turned around, heading for the stairs and sitting down, holding her head. She clutched it like it was throbbing, muttering something to herself about the stars coming back too loud. "and then you stopped me. You couldn't do it," she acknowledged, "the stars thought you wouldn't, but you stopped." She looked up at him confusedly, "and you stopped because I couldn't," she said softly, confusedly. She wasn't quite certain how that worked. She would have given whatever he wanted in that state, loved him however he wanted her to. Why would he pass up on that? He had never gone against her will before, but he wouldn't have even had to know that that's what it was. Her will wasn't important to anyone but Spike, but it baffled her that somehow, it mattered that much to Spike.

He nodded, looking hesitantly at her, not seeing anger so much as confusion. He felt a pang. Her sire had essentially taught her that what she wanted, her free will wasn't important. That's why it surprised her. After a century, she still remembered that, still occasionally forgot that people could value her free will. Maybe he could… _no, you burned that bridge when you had the spell cast_. "Yeah, I made it stop. It's—if you left, you left for a reason. It's not right for me to just…" he trailed off, not certain how to finish the sentence. He sat down beside her, putting his head in his own hands, cursing his own was certain she was going to leave, probably never come back, but he didn't deserve any better. "Is there anywhere you want to be right now, love?" he asked her softly, not expecting her to stay.

Drusilla smiled, pulling Spike close, "I want to be here," she insisted, "there are no ashes, and without the ashes I don't want to go," she said quietly, leaning her head onto his shoulder. She looked up at how confused Spike seemed, and she wondered why. He'd even told her he loved her, before he let her free. That was her Spike, always setting her free. How could she leave after this? She turned his head to face hers and kissed him, just gently. There wasn't a trace of ashes. She smiled, wondering if this had saved her Spike. Maybe they only had four years and a bit, if no one else would burn for the slayer, but better four years of love than an eternity of regret.

Spike just looked at her for a long while after, memorizing the way she looked right now, blue eyes open, happy for once. He smiled at that look. He'd thought when she left, this time was forever, but no goodbye between them could be forever, it seemed. Eventually, she fell asleep there, on those stairs, by then completely in his arms. He just lifted her carefully and laid her down in his bed, smiling when he slid in beside her. It had been nice having a house, but this was even better, having a home.


	2. Stardust

_**La poussière des étoiles is a poetic French way of saying "dead"… it translates directly to star dust.**_

_Notes: AU of Doomed, which is the episode where Spike very nearly killed himself, in a terrible Hawaiian shirt of Xander's. Genre: tragedy/romance. Writer: William_

_Warnings for: suicide, character death, violence that I didn't describe at all_

What could Spike do? Even Harris could beat him in a fight, not that it would be a fight. He was in ruins. A pathetic vampire who couldn't even fight. He couldn't do a sodding thing. Perhaps this was why Drusilla had left him. All she'd needed was one vision of this, how pathetic he could be and he wouldn't even blame her for. He looked bitterly at the ring on his finger, thinking of her. He bet Drusilla would be back in Europe, the people there tasted better to her. He could imagine her killing people like they always would together, lying in his old house with the memories that haunted him. Or was she somewhere else, letting another demon touch her, forgetting that he was ever alive—or, undead.

And here he was, utterly pathetic in Xander's basement. Drinking pig's blood from a bag, occasionally a warm bag of they felt generous. Spike couldn't see anything that he could do now. He had nothing, no one he cared about, nothing to look forward to, nothing. That's when he saw the stake the slayer had left in the basement. Spike had never liked the weakness implied in suicide. He'd always seen it as the ultimate loss of control, that instead of being able to kill whatever you were up against, you could just die. That you were so hopelessly lost that there was no way out. No, he'd always seen it as weak to not go down fighting. Not that he could fight any more. He supposed, there were sometimes when it made sense, when the pain outweighed the shreds of the pride. Only one scenario came to mind, and that was… well, he'd only seen that in a nightmare he'd been pulled into. He winced just thinking about what Angelus had done to finally break his love. He hoped, wherever she was, whoever she was with, she wasn't broken anymore.

He picked up the stake. He was drowning. There was no way out. He was alone, and useless. There was nothing to get him through the days now, and perhaps, in hell, she would find him. He stood the stake up on the table, taping it in place when it wobbled. This was all or nothing. He would either die, and therefore stop the pain, or he would miss and be in even more pain, even more pathetic. He wasn't letting that happen. He was already screwing things up across the board, making her leave, losing the witch with her love spell, getting captured by the sodding initiative. He wasn't half the vampire he pretended to be.

He got up on Xander's chair, looking around. No one would see. He couldn't bear to have to explain it to anyone. He heard footsteps on the stairs, and he took a deep breath, envisioning Drusilla. He could see her clearly, looking up at him expectantly from Xander's table, something undefinable shining in her eyes as she looked up at him. He could see her hair like the night sky, spread across the cheap wood, her favourite red dress and a several foot plunge between them. "Goodbye, Dru," he said softly. "I'll see you in hell." He took a deep breath, looking down at the stake, the illusion of her shattering. These last moments, he was alone, no illusions about it.

Drusilla had seen what he would do, and she knew if there was anyone who could save her Spike, it was her. She pushed past Willow and Xander on the stairs, after being invited in by a _very_ drunk Mr. Harris. She had to stop him. She'd left to save the world, but this way, neither the world nor her heart would be spared. She ripped the door open, praying she wasn't too late. She wasn't in a sense. She got to see him one last time, scream his name as he fell through the air. She screamed and begged, but only for a moment then the moment and her Spike were in ashes, in stardust.

Spike felt nothing as he fell, a sharp burst of pain as the stake ruptured his heart and he became dust. His wedding ring was all that remained, clattering to the table as the hand that wore it crumbled. Sinking to the floor in utter defeat, Drusilla wanted to weep. She'd let him die, alone and in a fit of self-loathing. His ring, all that was left of him sat on the table, mocking her. _Till dust do us part_, but they parted long before dust. And now she could never go back. She wanted to join him, but first there would be justice. The people who had let her William, her Spike die deserved to die with him. William was stardust, scattered in her head, heavy in her heart. Stardust that filled her lungs and took her breath away as his words had in life. She found her ring on the table, where his pocket used to be, and she slipped it onto her finger. "I'll find you in hell, William," she said bitterly.

Willow, meanwhile, called Buffy and Giles, barely able to piece words together. Willow had seen many vampires dust, but she'd never seen one want it. She'd never seen a vamp do something so human, feel so much pain they would want it to end. She'd assumed anything with that much demon in it couldn't feel anything like that, and now there were ashes in Xander's basement to prove the contrary. Oh, god. The look on his face before he'd done it, and then the wails they could hear from Drusilla. Oh, god. It was horrible. She cried a bit as Buffy and Giles got into the car and drove over. Had Spike been in this much pain since he'd tried to bite her? Maybe she could have saved him if she's seen it. But she assumed he was just fine, and now he was dead.

Drusilla walked oddly calmly up the stairs, gliding like she was from another world. He's thought she was an angel when they'd met. Now she felt like an avenging angel. She would kill them before she could rest. The man who invited her in made a comment to her, something crude about her dress. Spike would have killed him and then they would have made love. Spike killed a lot of men for it. She loved his possessive side, the side of him that hated any man who wanted to take advantage of her. Oh, had she loved it. And now she'd never see that, or his demon, or the sweet little poet or any other side of him again. When she discreetly snapped his neck, The slayer crossed the threshold, looking unconcerned. When she saw how upset Willow was, she ran to her friend. Drusilla decided the witch could live. She hadn't been like them. She knew what a tragedy it was that William was dead.

Her friend did not. Actually, he spoke to the others like this had been a good thing, "but doesn't this make things easier, Buff? I mean, one less vampire on the Hellmouth-" he'd started, not getting what the fuss was. He had the evil dead in his basement, and now he didn't. It was a blus, and of course, the loss of a lead on the commandos wasn't that bad. He was sure Willow could whip up a tracking spell of sorts, couldn't she? Maybe Willow was just upset because seeing anything, even a soulless thing want to die, well, that still wasn't pleasant.

He never got the rest of the sentence out. Drusilla had one hundred fifty nine years of life, and she'd spent a lot of those years with Angelus. She was his masterpiece, just as broken as she was lethal, and she was going to let it out, like only she could. Drusilla exploded on him. She was not a vampire, or the grieving widow, or someone as broken as she felt. Drusilla was a force in these short moments, justice. She perceived nothing as she ripped and tore and screamed until all the screaming save her own stopped. But death, no matter who she'd killed, meant nothing, he was still dead. The best part of her was too. She looked over at the people who could have saved her love, could have saved themselves in disdain, as she continued on to the basement, her ring tarnished with blood, though she no longer cared whether it was hers or anyone else's.

Drusilla walked down the stairs, not as an avenging angel, not a force, but feeling broken and mortal. She looked down at her body, covered in blood, some normal, some the abnormally potent slayer- blood, some hers. Then, she left bloody foot prints up the chair, climbing up it resolutely. She could see him as she said softly, "ashes, ashes we all fall down," the , she let a few tears mix with her blood and the blood of her victims as she spoke again, "I'm coming for you, love."

And she fell, and her ashes joined hers, her ring falling beside his, her spirit joining his. They had even joined in death, a century ago, and joined again were they by death like an old friend. The rings lay on the table, in the ashes, shining like love lost, and then found.


	3. Life, Love, Liar

_**Mentor means the same as its English meaning, coincidentally, menteur means liar. One letter means all the difference in the world… odd, that.**_

_Set after the big scene in "Destiny". William saves Drusilla, but he can't look at her. He soesn't understand why she would sire him, if she was already shagging her sire. Oh, silly William, all is not as it seems. Genre: probably hurt/comfort. Writer: The Star That Lied (but the poem was by William)_

_Notes: this does rely on the established ideas of Stained Glass Saints, a published story, and my not yet published story, which comes after that… Either one is optional reading, but if you want the rest of the story, yeah, my stuff would help…_

_Warnings: it's set after the scene in Destiny (Angel season 5) where William finds Dru and Angelus... well, shagging, and with very, very dubious consent. But It's only mentioned looking back, in thoughts and a few lines of dialogue, and not so much that this isn't T any more._

Funny, how slight the difference, from trust to betrayal. His choice was live or love, and those were one letter and a world apart, his silent heart a testament to his choice. He thought he'd chosen his destiny, but William wasn't sure there was such a thing. Wasn't it nice to blame a force? No one was at fault, it was all destiny. It was human, even reminiscent of the poet in him to think that way. He was amazed Angelus hadn't beaten that out of him yet. Nothing was his, would ever be his, but he wasn't like her sire. He didn't just take. He wanted this to mean something, not that that seemed likely, as he trudged up the stairs, leaving a smirking Angelus and a baffled Drusilla downstairs and breaking into an empty room, shutting the door behind him. He couldn't look at either of them right now.

Not to mention, clearly, her bloody sire had not only been shagging her, but he doubted this was the first time either. What was he to Drusilla at all? Clearly, he wasn't even worth shagging. He wrote carefully down on his page _live_ before he scratched out the i and wrote _love—_that was where he'd gone, trading in his life for his love_._ This was a game he used to play as a child, shifting a word letter by letter into another one. He proceeded to scratch the v out and wrote _lose_ which became _lost _(which was how he felt now) and then _loft_, and _lift_, which became _life_. The differences a letter made. It became _rift_ (like the divide between them) then _riot_, then the door creaked, and he cheated once, making _riot_ into _roil_. Then he scratched out the a, turning it into _rail, sail, said, laid, lair_ and finally, the word that had been burning as an accusation: _Liar_. So he had a strong of words that took him from _live_ to _liar_. Well, wasn't that surprising to no one? That was his choice, en the end, he gave his love, and lost his life for this divide, a riot inside. Through things unsaid, he went into the alley that was her lair, and gave his life to a liar. Perhaps he'd use that somewhere.

He heard a knock at the door, probably Drusilla. She'd reached for him when Angelus had been holding her, almost tauntingly. He'd charged at Angelus, gotten her free because her eyes had begged him for it, and he was just ponce enough to not be able to leave her there. Angelus had thought he'd figured things out—taking what he wanted. He hadn't. He set Drusilla down wordlessly, not meeting her eyes and kept walking until he was up here in his room. He wasn't going to do this, not like this. If she didn't love him, that made him a fool and her a liar. Wouldn't shock him, that he was just another sodding fool for love. "Sod off!" he yelled in response to the knocking. He knew if Drusilla came in, he'd have to forgive her, once he saw that look in her eyes, how much this hurt her. He never could put his own bloody pain first, even when he was certain she was the cause of all of it. So let her sit out there. He shouldn't have to care, it shouldn't matter to him. He didn't owe her anything.

He heard a bit of a whimper, "daddy was going to hurt me," she said softly through the door. "He already has, so much. But my white knight saved me," William cringed, wondering if it was possible he'd misconstrued everything_. It couldn't be_. Drusilla was a sodding goddess, there was no way Angelus could make her do anything against her will. _Could he?_ Was it possible that William really had saved her? He sighed, now his mind would never be at ease, she'd killed him and shagged another man, and somehow he was making himself the villain. He couldn't _believe _this. Odds were, she wasn't implying that she didn't want it. For all he knew, it was another vampire thing he'd never understand, and that was a good thing, being hurt. Maybe it was a euphemism. Why couldn't just forget the initial way he'd interpreted her words? And had he imagined the note of vulnerability there in her voice?

Just outside the door, Drusilla leaned against the wall, trying to stifle the tears, if she cried, pain would start. He didn't like weakness, unless it was giving him control, oh, he loved that. She felt sick, already a little sore from—_oh, please don't think about it_. He'd found her after he and William had gone on their little slaughter, and shoved her to the bed, a smirk at his lips as he lifted her skirts and took as he wished. She felt filthy, because she'd let him do it. She hadn't fought this time, nor any of the other times in these long two decades. Not since she was human, because she knew she wasn't strong enough to fight him. The best she could hope for was that if she just lay there and took it, he wouldn't hurt her any more than she knew this had to hurt. Hurting was just a part of it, something she couldn't escape, probably not even if it was with someone she actually loved, someone who wouldn't want it to hurt her. Maybe it hurt because it was wrong, she was wrong and deserved it, but the greatest pain had been while she still had that pretty little birdie that would later fly away. The birdie was white. It shouldn't have hurt by that logic.

William heard a light thump as she lay against the wall, and her words haunted him. _Daddy was going to hurt me. He already has, so much… _William winced, trying not to think about that. Did Drusilla think of what he was doing as violence? Love wasn't something Angelus was capable of, so he was certain it wasn't that. He'd assumed it to be mutually beneficial though, a sort of shared celebration of the killing they'd done tonight. Was it possible that Angelus had meant the line about taking as you wanted? Was it possible that "nothing is yours" applied to your own body? Did Angelus… _No, William_. _That is quite improper to think_. And given that he was a door away from a seer, he had to watch his thoughts. He could still see something in her eyes that contradicted his earlier thoughts, as his mind replayed the scene for him. The way she'd looked at him when he entered the room, almost pleadingly. Was she begging him to make it stop, or was she begging him to stop interrupting. And he wanted yet didn't want to believe the former. The former meant pain but honesty, and he wouldn't wish it on her, but f it was that way, she was the Drusilla he'd fallen for, he could still love her…

Drusilla caught the scene repeating in her William's thoughts. She lay there limply, obscured by Angelus, the bed screamed, and so did she, but her screams manifested on the inside, barely slipping through the dam as unshed tears. She could see her own pain, and she knew William saw it too, as she swam in his thoughts. He saw her pain. He was even beginning to ask questions she could never answer, or daddy would be cross. Daddy was already cross that she'd chosen a human poet for her own, maybe that's why tonight, to hurt both of them. _Maybe this was punishment_. He didn't understand it, why she chose William. William's mind was a starry night; his soul was a pure white birdie like hers was. She wondered if the birdies frolicked together, wherever they went now. "William?" she asked, barely raising her voice above a whisper, hating the weakness in her voice. What if her William was too much of a vampire to see her vulnerability as anything but pathetic?

William had written a line of poetry while Drusilla was gone: _I gave my life for her lies, behind closed eyes, _which he swiftly followed with: _too naïve to realize. _He sighed, continuing his writing, but finding no words. Then, Drusilla said his name, and he heard a note of fear in her voice. If it was… if Angelus was hurting her, he couldn't leave her in the hall. _A rock and a hard place, her in the hall. _"You can come in pet," he finally said. _But I never could be her fall. _He cursed himself for being just sappy enough to let her in. If there was even a chance that this wasn't what it looked like, he would jump at it, only to probably walk into an even bigger trap, and even more pain. Loving her was vaguely masochistic of him, it would seem. It was involuntary though. He saw her and suddenly, he loved her. It hadn't been a decision, or a choice, it had been a surge of something.

Drusilla carefully opened the door, sitting down on the edge of William's bed, leaving him at his best. Clearly, she was tainted, too tainted. Perhaps, William looked into the eyes of the stained glass saints, and saw something terrible, something not worthy of his love. She wouldn't blame him. She was tainted, broken. She hated it, but she was. The stars told her, even before she was broken that no one would ever love her. And William had defied them for a day, she'd felt it, but maybe a day was the only time he could hope for. Defying fate, if only for a day had already hurt him. She couldn't let it hurt him anymore, it was like screaming in her head though, trying not to care. She got up and stroked a bruise on his cheekbone, probably from his row with Angelus. "My white knight is hurt," she said softly, soothingly running a cool fingertip over the vaguely inflamed area.

William risked writing another like of poetry while her fingertip soothed his pain. _I'm a white knight, but it's not right. _Then he tried to rhyme something with right. Night perhaps? No, it was redundant, given that he'd already used knight, _living like this, hiding from the light. _That was better. He smiled at the line, fortunately, he had plenty of inspiration. It was far darker inspiration than he'd had in a long time. Not since his mum took ill, or the things he'd been mentally been writing as he'd left the party. Who would have thought? Drusilla was a double edged sword, either the best or worst part of her life, and he wasn't sure which. He'd given her his soul, and she'd just shagged another man, like it was nothing. Unless, of course, it was because she didn't belong to herself in his mind. Oh, this was giving him a headache. Who was the victim, himself, Drusilla, both of them? Did she want to hurt him, or was this outside her control?

She removed her finger, sitting down on the desk, looking at his book. "May I read?" she asked him. And he shook his head. She could tell he didn't trust her. Hadn't she told him not to trust her, two decades before this? How things changed. He'd told her that she couldn't be evil in that dream, but oh, was she ever. Evil and filthy, for claiming his soul and then letting her sire hurt her intimately. She sighed, putting a hand on his shoulder, trying to fight to be strong, but not finding any strength. She wanted to tell her William what she'd endured, and then he would forgive her, and all would be right in the world. Well, her sire would be alive and that meant that injustice would flourish, but she didn't care. She would have her William, and maybe he could take away the hurt. "Daddy, he's bad. He made the birdies leave and the scars scream until it stopped. And you made it stop," she kissed him lightly, on the bruised cheekbone, "no one has ever done that before," she added pensively.

William dropped his pen at her words. She'd practically answered his question right there. He teared up, not wanting to think about the implications of her sentence. She was a victim, and he'd almost left her in the hall to suffer alone. How could he not have seen it in her eyes, heard it in the metaphors she made? He got up, picking her up off the desk, and just holding her for a moment, not certain what to say or do. "I'll keep you safe, love," he promised her, something shining in his eyes as he said it, something honest. He meant it. Maybe, she was his destiny, and this had just been Angelus's attempt at changing fate. It had almost worked, but he wasn't going to let it work. He held her close, just trying to reassure her that he wouldn't leave.

Drusilla felt home here in the arms of her William, because he wasn't leaving. He didn't seem disgusted when he learned that she didn't even have control of her own body, that she couldn't even seem to stop her sire from taking as she wanted. She thought William would either be disgusted by the weakness, as a vampire or see her as tainted, as a man. Instead, he was berating himself for leaving her in the hall, for letting her suffer even a tiny bit more. In everything she'd lost, she'd never been kissed, and she'd always like the idea of having even some small vestige of innocence left, she looked at William for a long moment, and she realized that that meant there was still one thing she could give to the man she loved. Softly, slowly as though they would break if she went too fast, she pulled him in letting their lips gently meet. Kissing him made her feel alive again, particularly when one of his hands moved around her head, holding her there. Neither of them knew quite what they were doing, but they learned slowly together.

Her knight had saved princess from the dragon, and this is where they kiss. Eventually, they stopped, but she didn't leave. Her room was cold, and she wasn't safe there. Instead, she just lay there in his arms, deciding to sleep in his bed. William was amazed at the trust she'd bestowed on him, staying here, and the way her lips had danced with his. Yeah, it was a shock, seeing them, and another shock, learning that his dark goddess was a victim. He knew it was wrong for him to be able to love her still. Society certainly wouldn't approve. If a woman wasn't married and wasn't a virgin, there were two places she could go, the convents and the brothels, but William didn't want her to leave. It didn't matter to him, that Angelus had hurt her, taken things from her he'd had no right to take, William could still love her. He lay there, holding her sweetly until sleep found them, and then into the evening once she was awake. There was a minute difference between someone you loved, and someone who deceived you, and he was happy that she was finally on the right side of it in his mind.


	4. Souls and Sires

_**À quelque-chose malheur est bon. **__**It's the french way of saying that every cloud has a silver lining. Literally translated, it means, "to some, evil (or, misfortune) is good." A rather masochistic translation, in a sense, or construed for vampires, it implied that some are happier without souls. Could also mean that they think they deserve the pain… could be a bit of both…**_

_So, this is insanity. It was co-written by the three of us, and a big, emotional thing that ughh. So, before any further insanity, this was written by the Star that lied, myself and William. Whipped cream was provided by William. I brought tissues. Never again will we let Star choose the plot for the set just after S6, so Spike has a soul, to warn everyone. Also, he's out of it, from his conscience battering on him. The poem (italic lines) interspersed in there is written by William (obviously)_

_Warnings: Insanity, references to Seeing Red, siring (which includes blood and such) , ensouled!Spike and RealtivelySane!Dru_

Spike lay on the ground chest still throbbing from his soul. Sodding thing hurt like the bloody sun. His wounds even seemed to sting more with the addition of the bloody thing. Then, things had started to flood back, things he'd done, people he and his black beauty had killed, things he'd done later, without her, kidnapping the witch. Even the roughness between him and the slayer, that culminated in… "No," he groaned, forcing himself into a sitting position. He didn't want to hurt her, he'd just thought—well, it was what she'd done to him, treated him like a bloody convenience, and then, he'd done it back, just once. Once was all he needed, wasn't it? And he'd shown them both why she could never love him. You could take the man out of the demon, Angelus was proof of that, but you couldn't take the demon out of the man.

_Not who I thought, but maybe I'm gone,_

Perhaps he'd done the opposite by trying, tried to supress it only to have an explosion of demon, flooding out, doing things that he could never—oh, god. Lifeless faces flashed before his eyes, to a symphony of cries and screams. He could hear a voice at his ear, telling him to come back to the darkness, the shadows where he was home. No. No, he couldn't. He had that spark In him, like the love he used to think was real, burning him away into ashes, consuming . He slid down the rock wall of the cave, letting himself collapse to the floor. He had a soul now, but maybe it hurt because he didn't deserve it. Oh, the screaming, oh, god, the screaming was awful, echoing thorough his ears. No wonder Dru could never stand it, oh, it was like being torn apart.

Drusilla was nearby at the time. She liked Africa. There were big kitties that liked her well enough, and the locals tasted good. She was here this time desperately, after rethinking her statement, that Spike was too lost for her to save him. She had a small scar over her heart from the tip of a stake, and that should prove that her Spike was gone, but he didn't feel gone. He felt close, like lying on blood spattered rocks, shouting for mercy his bloody soul would never give him. It was a cruel little birdie, once a dove, now a raven, drenched in blood and deviously, cleverly ripping him apart from the inside. Maybe she could take it out. She was tired of letting him save the bloody world. She'd known he would be ashes, but she hadn't known how it would torture both of them.

Matter of factly, she set Miss Edith down, putting the doll in a bag she'd stolen from some locals, and left to find her Spike. He was lying on the ground when she saw him, tears streaming from his face as he muttered things that even Drusilla couldn't make sense of. Drusilla helped him into a sitting position, noticing how wounded he was, as he winced away from her touch. He was like her, shattered. When she'd woken up from Angelus's torment, lying on the floor of the convent, that was how she felt. Her life was over, her hope was gone, and there she lay beneath the wreckage, wishing she'd gone with it all. She'd exploded in fury, shattering walls and stained-glass condemners and then breaking down when the Holy Water of the fountain burned her. She'd said many things that night, most of them about her birdie, the gently white dove of a soul, that had flown away and never looked back. But the one thing she hadn't felt—or not yet, anyways. That would come later.

Spike felt hands on him, and was reminded of the way he'd been treated as a child, he fought against the hands at first, but felt the touch was good, actually, helping him, No! No! HE was bad. He didn't deserve the comfort. "Stop," he said softly, vision obscured by tears and grime from the cave floor. "Stop. No! William is gone! Please?" he choked out. He could feel the other kids pushing him, like they had before. When he looked up at them though, he saw them as he'd left them, one puffy-faced and bloated from his body thrown into the ocean, two with slit throats, Peter with his neck broken, one of them with a railroad spike sticking from his forehead. Spike begged them to stop as the pushing got rougher and rougher.

_And I deserve every time, for not holding on_

Drusilla stifled the pain that it caused her when he told her William was gone, but she knew he wasn't directing it at her. She wanted to hold him like he'd held her in that first dream. He was a child at the time, he hadn't listened when she told him she was evil, that she had no would, he'd just held her close and told her that if she was sad, she shouldn't be alone. She could feel his soul, mocking her, joining in with the voices of the stars, but it wasn't talking to her. It was just whispering to her William, telling him all the things he's done that he shouldn't have. It told him he was bad, that he had to fix it, but he never could… never, never, never. It was like her star, telling him conflicting things, to go to Sunnyhell and be the slayer's champion, to stay here and let himself starve. She knew that feeling. She'd lived a couple centuries with that one star that never shut up, constantly telling her that she should have died before he'd killed her family. She could help him. She knew she could. "It's just me, love," she whispered softly, "I can make it stop."

He whimpered, seeing Drusilla there, his soul reminding him that she took it away. She's the one who made it leave. Seduced it out of him, with the way she wound his words and told him he wanted in other worlds. It was something in her eyes, and then his soul had left. Did he love her? Could he even love without a soul. The slayer's words rang mockingly in his ears, "you can't love! You don't even have a soul," but if it wasn't love, what was it? "What was it?" he asked her, looking around and seeing the alley around them, seeing Drusilla. He backed up, against the wall, looking around, begging her not to, but his body didn't respond. He followed the same script, did the same things as he did a century and a quarter ago, screaming on the inside. Did she save him or did she damn him? He watched from his younger eyes as his vision faded and something ethereal, a sphere of light floated up to the sky, he begged it, reaching out to it, trying to be free, but he had no strength, he collapsed from the blood loss.

_And I was yours that night_

Drusilla knew what it was like to lose reality. She was the most coherent she'd been in her hundred-seventy years as a vampire, and that was because of a dwindling black-market supply of the blood of a certain demon. What a twist, her being close to sane, not close enough that the stars or the pixies went away, not far enough that she didn't still need to burn sometimes to let it out, but close enough to sane that she could tell Spike needed her. Close enough to see that he was slipping, that his soul would kill him from the inside until he burned for the slayer. She could practically smell the ashes in the room. She used to have to kiss him to… oh, god. She was already shaking, best take another vial of that blood now. She opened the bag, trembling as she did. There were only four left, and then she'd have to steal some more money, and go back to the village for a night. The blood was sort of a blue-black, and it tasted bitter, but it worked, and she needed as mush sanity as she could have for this. Then, she also saw the first aid kit she'd stolen, in case the big kitties used their claws. "I'll fix you up, love," she whispered determinedly.

Spike heard her words clearly this time, flinching back. If by fixing him up, she meant taking his pain, then he couldn't. He couldn't. He needed the soul, so that they could forgive, and he wouldn't be a monster any longer. If she only meant his physical wounds, it still wasn't right, because he deserved the hurt. Oh, god. Oh, god. He could remember the nightmare they'd had—no, no, that was rea. Angelus had killed a church full of people, and shown Spike how to kill, and then he'd gone home and shagged Drusilla. Spike was sure it was a nightmare, had been so disgusted when he learned through the little metaphors Drusilla made how Angelus was. Whether or not she wanted it… but he was no better. He could hear Buffy in his ears, screaming, pleading, asking him to remind her again whey she could never love him. He was no better than Drusilla's sire, "no," he choked out, "no—no better."

_But I was never right_

Drusilla still winced when Spike thought about that. Get as much Lorophage blood into her as you like, the memories of her sire would still hurt. She'd seen the whole thing with the slayer. Made her sick at first, slayer treating her Spike like… like… like those children, she'd known one named Marie, who always seemed to be breaking and hurting anything that they thought was theirs. The slayer had left him for dead after he tried to stop her from going to jail. And then, like that, her Spike had become something else. He was a big bad before, but he'd never been a monster. Not until then, anyways. The slayer had screamed like she did, but she'd fought him off. And then, Drusilla had seen the pain in his eyes as he'd realized what he'd done. He was still William. He hadn't known what he was doing. Not that a soul would care. Souls were like stained-glass saints, they were there to hurt you, rip into you with their claws, innocent, guilty or any shade between. "You're not like him, Spike," she whispered, wincing as the screaming in his mind continued. Normally, four vials would be about a week's worth of blood. She wasn't sure she'd make it through the night.

"Wanted…" he gasped softly, "wanted… wanted it to stop," Spike pleaded, his eyes fixating on Drusilla's imploringly, albeit unfocusedly. He looked at her for a long moment like that, begging her with his eyes to hear him. She could see that same plea he'd given her when she made him. He was begging her with his eyes for her to save him. And she could, if he would let her. She would sire him again and hope that it would send the soul away. Maybe then she could save him again. She wondered if that would work a second time. The first time had been… well, his blood had been beautiful, flowing like the sweetest poetry, and when the pain, the screaming subsided, and she let him drink her, that had been… Well, that had been almost… it had been the closest she'd ever come to completion, feeling loved, alive as she did when he drank her.

_I thought I could change but there was blood on my hands_

She stroked one of the cleansing wipes down one of his cuts. He tended her wounds so well after Prague, all the various tortures Prague had been full of. She'd been wounded inside and outside. They'd had some sort of a demon, or she assumed it was a demon—who fed off of pain, chaos. He'd broken into her mind and then ripped at it. Spike had spent years trying, putting her back together, starving himself, so he could hunt for her and not leave her alone too long. Most of her memories for that were… well, she wasn't quite sure which of them were real, and what was nightmares and delusions, and the pixies toying with her. She could barely see them when she drank her cure. They stopped tormenting her. The taste of ashes, well, that would never go away, but she didn't have to watch it anymore. Drusilla laughed bitterly. She'd never thought she'd be the sane one.

Spike winced when the antiseptic came into contact with his body. He could see it, in his memories, his dark goddess above him, clawing at him. His breathing deepened. He liked this memory. He liked it until there was blood and killing. Often, they'd made love after killing, and he could see lifeless eyes judging him. "No! No, Can't!" he shrieked frantically. Why did they kill all those people? Were they bad? Could he even redeem himself after that, all the lives they took together? No wonder the slayer couldn't love him, evil, soulless thing. Oh, no. He had a soul now, but all it did was burn, he couldn't make the burning stop. Maybe the burning would stop when he deserved it to. Drusilla just kept tending to his wounds as he tried to pull away. He wasn't good. He sobbed softly, seeing all the death. Why was Drusilla here, to take him back? Did she want to bring him back to the shadows? The light burned, but the burn was what he deserved. He couldn't go.

_What's left, when you know you can't?_

Drusilla ignored him telling her not to, knowing that his conscience would be berating him. He sounded like she did after she was sired, but she didn't feel guilt then. Rage, shame, pain, loss, sure. She never felt a hint of guilt for those scars she'd done nothing to earn, scars she used to try to burn off. Even with the blood in her, she hated them, every one of them. Her sire had a soul now, and he'd deny it to Hell and back, but she would always be marked as his masterpiece. Her body would always be marred by scars that he'd left on her, driving her to the edge of her sanity and throwing her off. Spike had made her feel… feel almost like they weren't there, like she was beautiful. Leaving him had devastated her. Maybe she could bring him back, fix this. Either way, she wanted to make sure she healed him first, make sure that if the sunshine was going to burn him to ash, if she couldn't save him, at least he would only hurt one way.

Spike needed her to stop. He deserved the pain, and she was taking it. She always took the pain, never did like giving it. He assumed when the humans screamed, it reminded her of things she'd be best without remembering. It was one thing they'd done yet. She only tortured them if they'd hurt someone else. Spike remembered the screaming that one man had made, once. He had a cat. Spike remembered holding the poor thing as she shivered and made these absolutely heart-rending whimpers. The man had hurt that kitty badly, and Drusilla had killed him slowly, as Spike alternately helped her and tried to help the cat. Drusilla was justice that night, leaving him in the same state he'd left his cat, on the edge of death. Spike could see the man's accusing eyes as the light in them faded, but the anger, the pain, the accusation never did. Who were they to play god, kill the ones they thought deserved it? "Drusilla," he said softly, "I can't heal, love. I'll heal wrong," He said softly, begging her to stop and just let him suffer.

Drusilla didn't stop. No, she'd come too far to stop. Wanted it to stop…. Stop, stop. The trembling was back with a vengeance as her traitorous mind dredged up things she'd seen. She couldn't differentiate between which was nightmare and which was a vision with the things that flashed through her mind, the screaming. oh, god, the screaming, the slayer, first, she'd watched her love fall for the sunshine, go to dance in the day with the sunshine, dance till he burned and she couldn't save the one thing that had made this life mean anything. She could see him shagging the slayer, letting the slayer take out her anger on him from time to time. She could see Spike finally treating the slayer like she'd treated him. , and oh, god the screaming, because Spike didn't know, and the slayer didn't want it. Drusilla fumbled with her bag, looking for the blood. Two left after this one. She popped the seal, but her trembling hands lost the vial. The blood splattered to the ground, dark clarity wasted. Two more. The second time around, she got it open easy enough and swallowed it easily, feeling the clarity flood back to her, a lot of the pain leaving, not enough of it though that she felt right. Spike's soul, it seemed, would be just as much torment to her.

Spike shook his head, begging up what he assumed was the slayer, "Didn't- didn't want to hurt you," he said softly, imploringly. The slayer, just looked down on him, "you didn't have a soul. It wasn't even real," she said disgustedly. He heard a shattering sound, and felt Drusilla's hands leave his body, and the slayer just kept looking at him. He could see her, before him, hear the way she'd screamed ringing through his ears. He was no better that Angelus in some respects, he reluctantly admitted to himself. Then, Drusilla resumed cleaning his wounds, and he couldn't. He needed it to stop. He didn't deserve her kindness. He needed her to stop. "Dru," he said weakly, before he pushed her off of him. The look of hurt in her eyes but through the delusions, and the angst, and everything, until all that existed was Drusilla and Spike.

When Drusilla felt him push her away, she didn't try to come back, she just laid there, undisguised hurt in her eyes. He'd already chosen to dance in the sunshine, but that he wouldn't even let her help him, maybe he didn't trust him to. She went to get her bag. "You have a soul now. You don't need me." She'd always let him take care of her, even after Prague, when some days she just wanted to scream at him, that she wasn't that fragile, that she wouldn't break if he just… Oh, but she couldn't leave. Why did she have to leave? It was like he was still here in her mind, his thoughts swirling with hers, but she didn't remember blood and death, she remembered making love. She remembered a poet, who'd shown her that it didn't have to hurt, made the nightmares go away, caught the words when her pixies stole them from her. She remembered the William that had seen her scars, knew how she got them, and still somehow held her closer. But if he wasn't that Spike, maybe it was best for her to leave, remember him at his best.

_and nothing would ever be the same_

Spike got up, wincing when it hit a burn from fighting the man with fire-hands. He walked, limped, really, to Drusilla, the pain he'd seen in her eyes hurt him, but that was a hurt he could fix. He'd loved her for a century and a quarter, and she'd saved him, made him, not only did he owe her this, but he wanted to fix it. He wanted her to finally be happy, though in her life… well, it was never too likely that she would be… if Angelus was alive, odds were he'd find a way to ruin it, or fate, or the world. Even with a soul, knowing what they'd done when they were together, he still felt a twinge of protectiveness rising in him. "Don't go," he said softly, "the spark, it doesn't like it, but I want you to stay," he admitted, hating the conflict between himself and his soul.

Drusilla turned around in surprise, barely understanding his words, she reached into her bag, one last vial of the Lorophage blood. She had a decision to make. "Spike, I can take it away if you let me," she said softly, "but only if you let me. I'm not going to sire you just so you can go back to her," she added, looking up at him for a long moment. He once told her she was his destiny, but now he was pulling away from destiny to burn for the slayer. Drusilla could already see an alternate fate, where another soulful vampire would rise up as a champion and burn to save them. Actually, she'd liked that vision. Now her sire knew what it was like to burn. But she hated the thought of seeing Spike burn, seeing him full of light, and the slayer would look at him and finally say it. Would it be worth his death to Spike to hear those three words from the slayer, when Drusilla could mean them right now? Would the slayer even mean them?

Spike looked at her for a long moment, his hand running through his pale hair, which had broken into little curls, from not having gelled it for days. His soul hurt, but he had to keep fighting. He couldn't go back to it, but seeing Drusilla, he wanted to. He wanted to fall into her arms and stop being strong, trying to become someone he wasn't sure he could be after what had happened in Sunnydale. Everything was wrong now, and he didn't want it to be wrong, but he knew it was, to go back, to fall into her arms and forget that he wasn't good. He knew he couldn't hurt Drusilla, he hadn't even without a soul, but no, that was a lie. She'd come to him burned and looking for something a reason, and he'd given her hope, and then snuffed it out. Like a flame, he'd stoked the fire, and then poured ice water on it. Bad Spike. Oddly, his soul didn't care. It told him she didn't feel his betrayal because she didn't have a soul, but he knew the fire was there. He knew that they'd been in love as vampires. Why couldn't his soul know?

_Still I know that I'm to blame…_

Drusilla looked at the indecision, the confusion in Spike's eyes. He was lost right now, but she could make it clearer. She reached into her bag and handed him the vial of blood, smiling a little, "this has been making me sane. You need to understand what you're doing," she explained, breaking the seal on the vial and passing it to him. He looked at it dubiously, as if there was something amiss with the blood, sniffing it. "Lorophage blood. It'll make you coherent," she explained, feeling herself starting to slip again, as Spike drank the last of her cure. If he stayed, she wouldn't have to use it to pretend. She had moments where, with him, it all fell away, and she didn't feel broken. That was better than the numbing the blood did. It pushed things away, but staying with him, loving Spike made it better, made it go away. Spike wasn't a respite, he was home.

Spike drank the blood, feeling something rushing through him. That was better already. He could . He could never fix what he'd done there, but maybe… Maybe getting a soul wasn't the right way to try. Maybe he needed to leave, try to do good elsewhere. And Drusilla, well, perhaps Drusilla was here because she needed him, because, like he'd said before, she was his destiny. He'd wronged her too, given her hope and then tried to kill her, just after she'd been burned by her sire. Maybe he'd start by making things right for her. He loved her, and Spike knew he always would, and despite that his soul didn't care because she didn't have a soul, he did. Drusilla had been through a lot. He could take away what pain her could, try to help her forget. He'd done it for a century and a quarter, almost… It was just short when she left. Maybe he could fix things for her and then from there, see. What was wrong with his soul that it didn't care? And why hadn't she taken a vial of the blood for herself. He could see her hands shaking, like the blood was starting to flood out of her system, the pain was returning. "Love, why don't you…?" he trailed off, motioning to the bag.

_And in this gift you gave to me_

Drusilla felt a surge of something when he called her 'love', his voice already a lot more coherent. Lorophage blood was a miracle, but not one she had much more of. She wanted, just once while she was sane, she wanted to kiss him while she was clear, and taste only Spike and no ashes. She did, pulling him close, tasting Lorophage blood, Spike's blood, and cigarettes. She'd always loved the blood of her Spike, "there's not enough time," she told him bitterly, knowing she was slipping, "the hands on the clock are little traitors and I wanted to trap these moments," oh, god, it was starting already! "I wanted you to have it. I wasn't meant to be the sane one in this—whatever this is," she added, trying to keep the bitterness out of her voice. She knew what was going to happen, she could feel his soul like a slap in the face, and taste his ashes in her mouth, like they would travel down her throat and finally bloody do it already.

Spike heard the urgency in her voice, the familiar, metaphoric way she spoke. She was sane and he had a soul, they weren't the same, but she was still giving him the last vestige of her newly found sanity. Only Drusilla ever could, and something about that, that she'd rather see him happy than herself, it just pushed him off the edge. He pulled her close and kissed her one more time, his lips finding hers in that dance they'd mastered so well. His hands threaded into her midnight hair, and he just savoured this, being so wrapped up in Drusilla, in being hers. Soul or no soul, he was hers, and he knew, barring the time he'd almost staked her, and that… he wasn't going to do that to her, again. He'd been packed to leave with her in case she ever came back, and he'd drank for weeks and weeks, cursing himself for ruining it. Now, he finally had a chance.

_Always there to set me free_

She broke the kiss for a long moment, looking up at him, a haunted look in her blue eyes. "Spike. If I'm going to… I can't take it. Can't. I need you to do one last thing," she took a deep breath and bared the side of her neck that had the scars her sire left with her. Last time she'd run out of blood, she'd tried to burn them off, and come damned close. She knew the next time she tried to get rid of them, she would succeed, probably because dawn was close, and she didn't trust herself not to taste her own ashes, dance in a more literal sunshine. "I need you to sire me," she begged, hoping the plea wouldn't alarm him. She wanted him to claim her, take her back from Angelus. "You don't have to stay after, if you want to get back to the sunshine, but they're killing me." She didn't meet his eyes, not wanting to seem weak. She'd wanted to beg him for this since she'd sired him, but she hadn't dared. She'd never dared, first out of fear of Angelus, then because she didn't want to seem weak.

When she begged him, something broke inside Spike. She was trusting him with this, he knew how much he could break her, and his soul told him that he didn't care, but he did. He'd tried to kill her, and she was openly giving him a chance to make this right. To make her _his._ HE looked into her eyes, "I'll make you a deal, princess. I'll sire you if—" he took a deep breath, willing himself to have the strength, the impulse decision, rash though it was, he was certain was the right one. "If you make me yours again," he told her, sending a mental apology to all those he'd hurt. Humans could die, their suffering was short, a century if they were lucky—or, unlucky, depending on how you saw things. Drusilla would live forever, and he wouldn't let forever be a giant tragedy for the first woman he'd loved, his dark goddess, the woman who made him. Once, she was even his wife, before he pushed her away. He put her hand over the mark she'd left on his neck a century ago, sighing at the contact. He'd made up his mind, decided that he would be hers, give her a reason. For all that had changed, nothing had. He was still her Spike.

_And loving you will take me home,_

To say that his response had surprised Drusilla would be an understatement. She had expected she would have trouble convincing him that it was alright, that she wanted it. She kissed him deeply. "Yes," she said softly, letting her face shift and stroking a hand down his cheekbone, feeling like it was all coming back together, and the screaming of the stars and the giggling of the pixies became a hum in the background as his face shifted, and she felt his fangs prick her lip as they kissed, and then travel to her scars. She gasped as he trailed kisses to that infernal spot on her neck. A gasp became a whimper, as images rushed back to her, of her sire above her. This would hurt, but she was safe. She knew it, there was no snake to be found, and Spike's eyes were like home, not arrows. She could live in those eyes, she just had to stay in reality. "Do it, love!" she begged him, the pain all falling away as his fangs pierced her scars.

_And you would never be alone_

Spike had felt her tense when he first kissed her scars, and he knew why, what they were a sign of. He'd known that it wasn't going to work, and was ready to pull away apologetically when she told him to do it. Spike had taken a couple seconds deliberation, not certain of what to do, what she wanted, and then let his fangs slip gently within her scars, moaning at her taste. He'd only tasted her once, when he was sired. Other than that, he hadn't dared ask. He blood tasted like he imagined the stars would when they were the brightest, the way love should be. She shone. But it was when he heard her sounds, felt her pull him closer, that he was certain this was right, more than right, sod his soul, sod Sunnyhell, this was where he belonged.

Drusilla cried out in pleasure as she felt her life draining into her love's fangs, hands clawing at his shirtless form, pulling him closer, until she wasn't quite certain where the lines were. The lines were hazy, and she didn't want them ever to clear. If she could take this moment and trap it, she would have something perfect, and she'd be able to keep it forever, but he wanted her to sire him, make him hers again, her Spike. She arched into him, calling by his name as her cries grew louder, _William._ He released her neck, and she didn't hesitate before she kissed his scars, humming as her fangs sunk once again into the flesh, and she watched a slightly more spotted birdie flying away. The birdie wasn't white, but he wasn't a crow, because her William would still have the soul of a poet, no matter how many lives he took. He was meant for this, to bash and slash and bleed like beautiful poetry. And she noticed, as she drank him, that she couldn't taste ashes on him any more.

_Nothing could compare to the bliss_

Spike cried out her name as she drank, loving the way she held him close, as if he was her air, and she didn't want to choke any longer. It was time for it all to end, all the pain. He felt his own soul, something he'd almost died for an hour ago, flying away, and bid it depart. He was a good man without it, as long as they were together. Where the trouble came in was when he tried to be someone else, to redeem himself like a certain brooding vampire in Los Angeles. What was redemption worth when it hurt the one you loved? And maybe, this was all worth it in the end, the pain, losing who he was to get here. Drusilla found him, the slayer got a real champion, the one she was in love with all along, he reckoned. It was a fairytale ending.

_Of our happy ending… this is where we kiss…_

Drusilla removed her fangs, and slashed her finger down her lower lip, smirking as Spike mirrored the action, sealing it all with one bloody, beautiful, passionate kiss.


End file.
